Page 19 of City of Love
“You—you’re—” I say, only half thinking about what I want to say. I swallow. “You’re Mr. Grump,” I whisper. It’s all I can get out.
His eyebrows climb up his forehead. “Mr. Grump?” he says.
“It’s what I was calling you,” I say, still not paying attention to my words; my mind is reeling, trying to make sense of what’s happening right now. “Because you were grumpy. You’re—” I continue, more loudly now. “You’re…not…a girl.”
“No,” he says slowly, approaching me again. “I’m not a girl.”
I step back as he moves closer. “But you—” I break off, and it might be for the best; I can hear a slightly hysterical note entering my voice, and the sharp sting of angry tears is threatening. Unfortunately, the words build inside until they burst out of me. “But you were a girl. You’ve been a girl. For the last three years I’ve been writing a girl named Noel Marchand. You were a girl—”
“Lydia,” he says gently, and even though his voice is quiet, it’s somehow still commanding. “I’m not a girl, but I’m still the same person you’ve been writing to. It’s still me. I wasn’t entirely honest with you—”
But that does it. Of everything he’s said, that’s the one that pushes me over the top.
Not entirely honest?Not entirely honest?
Before I even think about what I’m doing, I register the rough, sandpapery feeling of his scruff against my palm as the sharp sound of a slap rings through the foyer.
Mr. Grump staggers backward, his hand flying to his face where I’ve just hit him, and I’m overcome all at once with a strange sort of shock. Shock that this is happening at all, but also shock that I just slapped him.
And on the heels of the shock is a wild, out-of-control guilt. I have a bit of a temper, but I’m not a hitter.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, though the words probably aren’t terribly intelligible, because I only just choke them out. I step closer to him—toNoel—lifting my hand to the same cheek I’ve just slapped. Tears prick at my eyes as I watch his jaw clench and unclench, his eyes looking at me stormily. “I’m so sorry,” I say again.
And suddenly, the day catches up to me. I told this man only today that I was done crying, but I was wrong. A gasping breath escapes me, and then, embarrassingly, I’m sobbing.
“I’m so sorry I hit you. You were supposed to be a girl,” I say through my tears. “You were supposed to be a girl—”
“I know,” he says heavily. “I know.” Apparently he trusts that I’m not going to slap him again, because I feel his hands rest on my shoulders. “Let’s go inside, okay?”
“Your mom,” I say, my eyes widening. “Oh, she’s going to think I’m a mess.” And at this point in time, she would be correct.
“She won’t,” he says, his voice so assured that I believe him. “As soon as we get in, go down the hallway to the left and into the bathroom, all right? Wash your face. Maybe pull out another pep talk.”
I swear I see a twitch at the corners of his lips—the tiniest hint of a smile—before it’s gone.
“I’ll tell her you’ve gone to bed,” he goes on.
“She’ll think I’m so ungrateful,” I say, shaking my head. “She was so nice when I got here, she let me take a nap—she’ll think I’m ungrateful.”
“She won’t,” Noel says. “Trust me, all right? I know that’s a lot to ask,” he adds when I give him what could probably be described as a scathing look. “But just this once. Let me handle my mother.”
Frankly, I’m still too tired, too worn out, to argue any further. So I just nod and let him steer me to the door, which he opens and pushes me through. One hand on my back gives me a little shove to the left, and I stumble into the dimly lit hallway, my gaze jumping around as I find the bathroom for the second time tonight. I dart inside, closing the door quietly but quickly behind me. I rest with my back against the door for a minute before standing up straighter.
This time around, I take a bit to look around the bathroom. It’s bigger than the one at Mr. Grump’s—Noel’s—flat, but it’s still fairly sparse. And I guess I’m not surprised, really; I’ve always imagined that living in Paris would be akin to living in New York City or something. Very expensive, very crowded. Tight quarters all around.
I splash cold water on my face, giving my cheeks a few firm pats and finally risking a glance in the mirror so I can take care of the eye makeup situation. It’s bad, but not as bad as it was earlier at Noel’s. I haven’t been cryingandout in the rain—only crying. I’m able to get rid of the raccoon eyes fairly quickly, until all that’s left is me: ragged, exhausted, shell-shocked.
I try to give myself a pep talk; I really do. But it won’t come. The most I can manage is a weak chorus of “You can do hard things.”
It’s not very persuasive.
By the time my crying has ebbed, I’m feeling guilty about splitting on Mme Marchand. She’s so nice, and she was obviously worried about me today. I can’t go to bed without thanking her. Besides, I’m not quite ready to talk to Noel yet. Undoubtedly I’ll be dying to talk to him later, to get to the bottom of all this, but right now I don’t want to see him. I just need to give my brain time to process.
So I clear my throat, splash my face with water one more time, and leave the bathroom, heading back the way I came. I find Noel and his mother deep in conversation, both of them seated on a couch in a relatively spacious living room. When they look up and see me, Mme Marchand’s content expression morphs into one of concern, undoubtedly due to my red nose and puffy eyes.
I quickly reassure her that I’m simply emotional from a long day of travel and exhaustion and getting lost, and she seems to buy my story; I don’t think she knows Noel has been lying to me this whole time. I sneak a peek at him to see if I can decipher his thoughts, and surprisingly he doesn’t look like he regrets anything. He just looks sympathetic—like he’s sorry I’m upset, but he would do it again.
If he’s at all like the persona he’s been assuming over the last three years, my assessment is probably accurate. She—no,he—usually has somewhat of an ends-justify-the-means outlook. A somewhatmaleoutlook, now that I think about it. He doesn’t like that he hurt me, but he’s satisfied that it was for a good reason.
